THE 

FLAME 

IN THE 

WIND 



MARGARET STEELE ANDERSON 




Class _jeS2^Ca. 
Book .M?.sVS- 



GopightJi" ^Mi 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



The Flame in the Wind 




Margaret Steele Anderson 



JOHN P. MORTON & COMPANY 
incorporated 

Louisville, Kentucky 
1913 






copybight, 1913, 
By Makgaeet Steele Anderson. 



©CU34 68 28 



To THE Memory of Mt Brother 
WILLIAM HAMILTON ANDERSON 

THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS DEDICATED 



/REPRINT "Pain" and "The Dead Child" by permission ojt 
The Century Magazine; "Work," "Allurement," "The Prayer 
of the Weak." "Michael Angela's Dawn," " The Mystery," and "Not 
this World" by permission of McClure's Magazine; "Habit," "The 
Breaking," "The Victor," "Imagination," "The Dream," and "In 
the Image of God" by permission of The American Magazine ; 
"Whistler," by that of The Atlantic; "Conscience," by that of Lip- 
pineott's; "Childless," by that of The Cosmopolitan; "The Spring 
Afterwards," by that of The Criterion; "The Night-Watches," by 
that of G. P. Putnam's Sons; and "The Violinist," by that of The 
Independent. m 'i A 



CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The Flame in the Wind 5 

The Breaking 6 

Pain 7 

f — ^The Mystery 8 

Habit 9 

Not This World 10 

In the Image of God 11 

The Dead Child 12 

, -The Prayer of the Weak 13 

-Y^The Victor 14 

"w— -The Dream 16 

The Mystic 17 

God, the Complement 18 

Work 19 

Michael Angelo's "Dawn" 20 

Odes of a Boy 21 

The Shepherd 22 

Lines Written to a Translator of Greek Poetry 23 

The Putto 24 

Imagination 25 

Whistler 26 

A Stage-Figure 27 

An Old Maid 28 

The Sin 30 

On a Ponipeiiian Bust called ' ' Sappho " 31 

To the Fighting Weak 32 



PAGE 

The Lesser Beauty 33 

Childless 34 

The Mother 34 

The Italian Eenaissance 35 

Donatello 35 

Hawthorne 36 

The Violinist 37 

Thalia and Melpomene 38 

Allurement 39 

The Shadow 40 

The Night- Watches 41 

Courage 42 

The Angel and the Child 43 

The Spring Afterwards , 44 

Beatrice 44 

The Invalid Child 45 

Conscience 45 

The Trees 46 

Lost Youth 47 

To a Fighter, Dead 48 

"Where There Is No Vision the People Perish" 49 



The Flame in the Wind 



Dost thou burn low and tremble — all but die ? 
And dost thou fear in darkness to be whirled? 
Nay, flame, thou art mine immortality. 
The wind is but the passing of the world! 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



THE BREAKING. 
(The Lord Grod speaks to a youth.) 

Bend now thy body to the common weight! 
(But oh, that vine-clad head, those limbs of morn! 
Those proud young shoulders I myself made straight ! 
How shall ye wear the yoke that must be worn?) 

Look thou, my son, what wisdom comes to thee ! 
(But oh, that singing mouth, those radiant eyes! 
Those dancing feet — that I myself made free! 
How shall I sadden them to make them wise?) 

Nay then, thou shalt ! Resist not, have a care ! 
(Yea, I must work my plans who sovereign sit! 
Yet do not tremble so! I cannot bear — 
Though I am God! — to see thee so submit!) 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



PAIN. 

You eat the heart of life like some great beast, 
You blacken the sweet sky — ^that Gr^od made blue ! 

You are the death's-head set amid the feast, 
The desert breath that drinks up every dew! 

And no man lives that doth not fear you. Pain ! 

And no man lives that learns to love your rod ; 
The white lip smiles — 'but ever and again 

God's image cries your horror unto God! 

And yet — 0, Terrible! — men grant you this: 
You work a mystery; when you are done, 

Lo ! common living turns to heav'nly bliss, 
Lo ! the mere light is as the noonday sun ! 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



THE MYSTERY. 

This is your cup — the cup assigned to you 
From the beginning. Yea, my child, I know 

How much of that dark drink is your own brew 
Of fault and passion. Ages long ago. 

In the deep years of yesterday, I knew. 

This is your road — a painful road and drear. 

I made the stones — that never give you rest; 
I set your friend in pleasant ways and clear, 

And he shall come, like you, unto my breast; 
But you — my weary child! — must travel here. 

This is your work. It has no fame, no grace, 
But is not meant for any other hand. 

And in my universe hath measured place. 
Take it; I do not bid you understand; 

I bid you close your eyes — to see my face! 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



HABIT. 

So, then ! Wilt use me as a garment ? Well, 
'Tis man's high impudence to think he may; 

But I, who am as old as heav'n and hell, 
I am not lightly to be cast away. 

Wilt run a race ? Then I will run with thee, 
And stay thy steps or speed thee to the goal; 

Wilt dare a fight? Then, of a certainty, 
I'll aid thy foeman, or sustain thy soul. 

Lo, at thy marriage-feast, upon one hand. 
Face of thy bride, and on the other, mine ! 

Lo, at thy couch of sickness close I stand, 
And taint the cup, or make it more benign. 

Yea, hark! the very son thou hast begot 
One day doth give thee certain sign and cry; 
Hold thou thy peace — frighted or frighted not; 
That look — ^that sign — that presence — it is I ! 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



NOT THIS WORLD. 

Shall I not give this world my heart, and well? 
If for naught else, for many a miracle 
Of the impassioned spring, the rose, the snow? 
Nay, iy the spring that still must come and go 
When thou art dust, hy roses that shall iloiv , 
Across thy grave, and snows it shall not miss. 
Not this world, oh, not this! 

ShaU I not give this world my heart, who find 
Within this world the glories of the mind — 
That wondrous mind that mounts from earth to God ? 
Nay, hy the little footivays it hath trod. 
And smiles to see, when thou art under sod, 
And hy its very gaze across the abyss, 
Not this world, oh, not this! 

Shall I not give this world my heart, who hold 
One figure here above myself, my gold. 
My life and hope, my joy and my intent? 
Nay, by that form whose strength so soon is spent. 
That fragile garment that shall soon he rent, 
By lips and eyes the heavy earth shall kiss. 
Not this world, oh, not this! 

Then this poor world shall not my heart disdain? 
Where beauty mocks and springtime comes in vain, 
And love grows mute, and wisdom is forgot? 
Thou child and thankless! On this little spot 
Thy heart hath fed, and shall despise it not; 
Yea, shall forget, through many a world of hliss. 
Not this world, oh, not this! 

10 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



IN THE IMAGE OF GOD. 

The falling of a leaf upon thy way, 
The flutter of a bird along thy sky, 
Thou God, to whom the ages are a day, 
Ev'n such, alas! — oh, ev'n such am I! 

So long the time, Lord, when I was not. 
And ah, so long the time I shall not be. 
So strange and small, so passing small my lot, 
I cry aloud at thine immensity ! 

Will not thy garment brush the leaf aside? 
Wilt thou, eternal, look upon the fall 
Of one poor bird? Or canst thou, stooping wide 
From thy great orbit, hearken to my call ? 

0, little child— 0, little child and fool!— 
My planets are my gardens, where I go, 
At morn and eve, at dawning and at cool, 
To see my living green and mark it grow. 

I know the leaves that fall from every tree, 
I know the birds that nest those gardens through, 
I hear the wounded sparrow cry to me, 
I note that dying flutter on the blue. 

Hast thou a spot on earth to name it thine? 
Does any creature lift to thee a cry? 
Behold! Thyself my token and my sign; 
For ev'n as thou art — so, my son, am I! 



11 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



THE DEAD CHILD. 

("I believe . . . in the resurrection of the body.") 

How young you are, for such lone majesty 

Of silence and repose ! 
That lip was vowed to laughter and that eye, 

That white cheek to the rose! 

What age your spirit hath, who thinks to say ? 

If young, or young no more ; 
But all for merriment, oh, all for play, 

That new, sweet shape it wore! 

So, in His time, to whom all time is now, 

From flower and wind and steep, 
Shall He not summon you to keep your vow, 

Since He hath made you sleep? 



12 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



THE PRAYER OF THE WEAK. 

Lord of all strength — behold, I am but frail! 
Lord of all harvest — few the grapes and pale 
Allotted for my wine-press! Thou, O Lord, 
"Who boldest in thy gift the tempered sword, 
Hast armed me with a sapling ! Lest I die, 
Then hear my prayer, make answer to my cry: 

Grant me, I pray, to tread my grapes as one 
"Who hath full vineyards, teeming in the sun ; 
Let me dream valiantly; and undismayed 
Let me lift up my sapling like a blade; 
Then, Lord, thy eup for mine abundant wine, 
Thy f oeman. Lord, for that white steel of mine ! 



13 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



THE VICTOR. 

'Thou hast not lived! No aim of earth 
Thy body serves — nor home nor birth; 
No children's eyes look up to thee 
To solace thy mortality. 

'Thou hast not lived! Forbidden seas 
Shut thee from Beauty's treasuries; 
Not for those hungry eyes of thine 
Her marbles gleam, her colors shine. 

'Thou hast not lived! Hast never brought 
To steadfast form thy hidden thought : 
Striving to speak, thou still art mute, 
And fain to bear, hast yet no fruit. ' ' 

So spake the Tempter, at Ms plot, 
But thee, my Soul, he counted not! 
Who mad'st me stand, serene and free, 
And give him answer dauntlessly. 

'Yea, shapes of earth are sweet and near. 
And home and child are very dear; 
Yet do I live — ^to be denied 
These things, and still be satisfied. 

'Yea, Beauty's treasures all are barred 
By one dark hand — so spare, so hard! 
Yet do I live — who still can be 
Their lover, though I may not see. 



14 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



'Yea, it is true that I have wrought 
No form divine from secret thought; 
Yet do I live — since fain am I 
To work that marvel ere I die. 

'And if I fruitless seem to thee, 
Yet hath my God some fruit of me; 
Since I can hear thee out — and bear 
A spirit still for dreams and prayer!' 



15 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



THE DREAM. 

They sing the race — ^the song is wildly sweet; 

But thou, my harp, oh thou shalt sing the goal ! 
The distant goal, that draws the bleeding feet 

And lights the brow and lifts the fainting soul ! 
(And yet, I know not! — is the goal the place 
I dream it is the while I run the race?) 

They sing the fight — ^the list'ners come in bands; 

But tune thy chords, my harp, to sing the prize, 
That noble prize for which the fighter stands. 

And bids his body strain and agonize! 
(Yet, if I knew! 0, is the prize so bright 
As I have thought it, all this bitter fight?) 

They sing the work; the song makes labor fair; 

But thou, my harp, shalt sing the labor's aim, 
The gleaming light, the beauty throned there 

That calls the worker onward more than fame! 
(But oh, I pray the aim be what I sought 
And visioned ceaselessly the while I wrought!) 

Yet — hear me not, Watcher of the race! 

Forgive me, thou Giver of the prize ! 
It is enough — the hope before my face, 

It is enough — the dream before mine eyes! 
And this I dare: to think thou hast not wrought 
Or dream or ardent dreamer all for nought! 



16 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



THE MYSTIC. 

When, wild and spent, I fly before 
Some steadfast Fate, serene, malign. 

Let me not think — Lord, I implore — 
Those dark and awful eyes are thine ! 

Oh, when the dogs of life are loose, 
And, raging, follow on my track, 

Let me not dream, by chance or use, 
The leash was thine that held the pack ! 

Nay — hunted, breathless, faint and prone, 
With my last gaze, ah, let me see 

The shape I know, nor shall disown. 
Thy shape, oh God, that runs with me! 



17 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



GOD, THE COMPLEMENT. 

("Nor does being weary imply that there is any 
place to rest.") 

Yes, by your wants bestead, 
You come myself to know; 

For if I be not bread, 
Why hunger so? 

And if not water I, 

Your fountain last and first, 
"Why should your earth be dry? 

Why should you thirst ? 

Have you not read desire? 

Do you not know your quest? 
Spirit, why should you tire 

Were I not rest? 



18 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



WORK. 

Mine is the shape forever set between 

The thought and form, the vision and the deed; 
The hidden light, the glory all unseen, 

I bring to mortal senses, mortal need. 

Who loves me not, my sorrowing slave is he, 
Bent with the burden, knowing oft the rod; 

But he who loves me shall my master be. 
And use me with the joyanee of a god. 

Man's lord or servant, still I am his friend; 

Desire for me is simple as his breath; 
Yea, waiting, old and toilless, for the end. 

He prays that he may find me after death ! 



19 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



MICHAEL ANGELO'S "DAWN." 

Dawn — midnight — noonday? What are times to thee' 
Man's Grief art thou, that moanest with the light, 
And starest dumb at evening — and at night 

Dost wake and dream and slumber fitfully! 

Thou art Distress — that cannot cry aloud, 
That cannot weep, that cannot stoop to tear 
One fold of all her garment, but with air 

Supremely brooding waits the final shroud! 

Dust, long ago, the princes of this place; 

Forgot the civic losses which in thee 
Great Angelo lamented ; but thy face 

Proclaims the master's immortality! 
So sit thee, marble Grief ! this very day 
How burns the art when long the hand is clay' 



20 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



ODES OF A BOY. 

(At Keats' grave— Winter, 1909.) 

Fades the great pyramid, the blank walls fade! 

And thou, immortal boy, dost walk with me 
Along that grove from out whose deeper shade 

The nightingale sings living ecstasy. 

And where thy burial-stone so long is set 
With plaintive lines that tell a day's despair, 

Lo, now that urn with happy figures fret 
Which cannot fail, but go eternal fair! 

Yet — suddenly — the wind of death is blown 
On all earth's beauty, even at its prime ; 

The red rose drops, the hand of Joy is flown, 
And thou — oh, thou art dust this long, long time I 



TjHE FLAME IN THE WIND 



THE SHEPHERD. 

(On a fragment by de Bussy.) 

Thy slender form I think I see 
On winter hills of Tuscany, 
Thy slender pipe I think I hear, 
So very faint, so very clear. 

That lonely reed! It seems to me 

To sing thine own simplicity, 

For thou art but a child and young. 

How should 'st thou know a subtler tongue' 

Then, still a child, I pray thee pass ! 
I would not see thee with a lass, 
Nor follow thee, o'er grass and rock. 
As thou dost lead some larger flock. 

Ah no ! That little, wilding pipe 
I would not give for one more ripe; 
E'en glad were I to hear it spent 
Unchanged — and thou still innocent! 



22 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



LINES WRITTEN TO A TRANSLATOR 
OF GREEK POETRY. 

A wild spring upland all this charmed page, 

Where, in the early dawn, the maenads rage. 

Mad, chaste, and lovely ! This, a darker spot, 

Where lone Antigone accepts her lot. 

Death for her spouse, her bridal-bed the tomb. 

And this, again, is some rich palace-room. 

Where Phasdra pines : " woodlands ! 0, the sea ! ' ' 

Or some sweet walk of Sappho, beauteously 

Built 'er with rose, with bloom of purple grapes ! 

They are all here — the ancient Attic shapes 

Of passion, beauty, terror, love, and shame ; 

Proud shadows, you do summon them by name : 

Achaean princes — Helen — the young god. 

Fair Dionysus — (Edipus, who trod 

Such ways of doom ! Aye, these and more than these 

You call across the ages and the seas ! 

And each one, answering, doth dream he lists 

To the great voices of old tragedists ! 



23 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



THE PUTTO. 

No child, no mortal child am I, 
No angel from the blue on high, 
And, though I gayly dance and shout, 
No Cupid, from a Bacchic rout. 

But I am all young innocence, 
So young I do not know offence, 
So very young I think that I 
Will catch that bird, that butterfly. 

Madonna — Lady — Queen of Heaven, 
Or Mother, whose red wounds are seven. 
Or waiting Virgin, mild and fair. 
See, I will hide behind thy chair! 

And round thy pulpit, friar gray, 
Lo, I will frolic all the day! 
My ways, perchance, are not divine. 
But cannot hurt thee — no, nor thine ! 

And thou, little darling Christ, 
'Tis long ere thou be sacrificed; 
Do beckon me, thou pretty One, 
And we will sing and laugh and run! 

And at the last, why then will I 
The earthly darkness beautify ; 
Dead Son, upon thy mother's knee, 
"While Heaven weeps blood, I garland thee ! 



24 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



IMAGINATION. 

With the old gods thou walkest, 'mid the leaf 
And bloom of ancient morning and of light ; 

Thou die 'st with Christ, and with the nailed thief 
That dies upon his left hand and his right. 

Yea, thou descendest into hell — and then 
To the last heaven dost take thy road sublime ; 

Thine hostelries the secret souls of men. 

Thy servants all the fleeting things of time ! 



25 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



WHISTLER. 

(At the Exhibit in the Metropolitan Museum, 
March, 1910.) 

So sharp the sword, so airy the defence! 
As 'twere a play, or delicate pretence! 
So fine and strange — so subtly poised, too — 
The egoist, that looks forever through ! 

That little spirit, air and grace and fire. 
A-flutter at your frame, is your desire, 
No, it is you, who never knew the net. 
Exquisite, vain — whom we shall not forget! 



26 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



A STAGE-FIGURE. 

(A painting by Whistler.) 

A thing of flesh and blood? Not so ! 
Yet what yon are I do not know. 
A paper sword ? A pasteboard flame ? 
Ah no, I cannot find the name ! 

Whate'er you are, 'tis not of earth, 
Nor did high Heaven give you birth ; 
A marionette your mother? Well — 
But you were sired by Ariel ! 



27 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



AN OLD MAID. 

"Within her lonely garden 
What fruits and spices grew! 

The lily was its warden, 
The red rose knew it too. 

But "Oh," she said, "The master 
Comes never to the gate; 

In pleasure or disaster 
He tarries, tarries late! 

'Comes not, with sweet devices, 

To pluck its flow'r and fruit, 
Comes not, to smell its spices, 
Nor hear its thrushes flute!" 

Then spoke the Lord of Heaven, 
"Unseen it does not fade; 
Do I not come at even 
To walk within its shade? 

'Do I not come at morning 
To hear its thrushes flute 1 

For comfort and adorning 
To pluck its flow'r and fruit? 

'I have not stayed nor tarried, 
Nay, I have kept thy sward ; 
bride no man has married. 
Behold in me thy Lord ! ' ' 



28 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



Thou heardest, in thy garden, 
And sweeter grew that close, 

And whiter still its warden 
And redder still its rose. 

Thou heardest, thou lonely, 
And brighter all that bloom. 

For this, this master only, 
Such riches of perfume ! 

And when in pity talking, 
They called thy beauty vain. 

They did not see Him walking 
With His angelic train. 

But some who paused from labor 
To catch that breath of balm. 

And some whom thou didst neighbor 
Who knew thy garden's calm, 

They whispered of a presence 

Exceeding mortal kin, — 
'This was no earthly pleasance, 
The Lord God walked within!" 



29 



THE FLAME IN THE WI ND 



THE SIN. 

That haunting air had some far strain of it, 
That morning rose hath flung it back to me ! 
The wind of spring, the ancient, awful sea. 
Bid me remember it. 

And looking back against the look of Love, 
I feel the old shame start again and sting; 
Such eyes are Love's they will not ask the thing, 
But I remember it! 

So this one dream of heaven I dare not dream : 
We two in your familiar ways and higli, 
"While you and God forget — and even I 
Cannot remember it ! 



30 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



ON A POMPEIIAN BUST CALLED "SAPPHO." 

Oh no, not this! This is a Roman face, 
Superb, composed, with such a matron grace 
As that of great Cornelia — never thee, 
Young princess of an ancient poetry ! 

Nor do I wish thy beauty from its grave ; 
Rather, one bird across the purple wave, 
Or the mere sight of that JEgean sea. 
Shall tell thy mortal loveliness to me ! 

Or I will find some slender, broken plinth, 
And mark it thine with wild blue hyacinth, 
"While some far fruit, upon triumphant bough, 
Shall say how unattainable wert thou! 



31 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



TO THE FIGHTING WEAK. 

Stand up, you Strong ! Touch glasses ! To the Weak ! 

The Weak who fight : or habit or disease, 
Birth, chance, or ignorance — or awful wreak 

Of some lost forbear, who has drained the cup 
Of passion and wild pleasure! So! To these, 

You strong, you proud, you conquerors — stand up! 

Touch glasses! You shall never drink a glass 
So salt of tears, so bitter through and through, 

As they must drink, who cannot hope to pass 
Beyond their place of trial and of pain, 

Who cannot match their trifling strength with you; 
To these, touch glasses — and the glasses drain! 

They cannot build, they never break the trail, 

No city rises out of their desires; 
They do the little task, and dare not fail 

For fear of little losses — or they keep 
The humble path and sit by humble fires; 

They know their places — all these fighting Weak! 

Yet what have you to show of tears and blood. 

That mates their blood and tears ? What shaft have you, 

To mark the dreadful spots where you have stood, 
That rises to the height of one poor stone 

Proclaiming some small triumph to the blue ? 

Ah, you have nothing ! Then stand up and own ! 

And yet you shall not pity them! They bear 
The stripe of some far courage that to you 

Is all unknown — and you shall never wear 

Such splendor as they bring to some last cup; 

You do not fight the desperate fight they do ; 

Then — to the Weak! Touch glasses! standing up! 

32 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



THE LESSER BEAUTY. 

You are the first wild violet of the year; 
Green grass you are, and apple-bloom, and spray 
Of honeysuckle; you are dawn of day, 
And the first snow-fall ! It is you I hear 
"When the March robin calls me loud and clear, 
Or lonely rill goes singing on its way 
Like some small flute of heav'n; or when the gray 
Sad wood-dove calls and early stars appear. 

And you it is within the wayside shrine 
Carved tenderly; and in the folded wings 
On some neglected tomb; and in the vine 
And leaf and saint of old imaginings 
On some forgotten missal — ^little things 
"We would not barter for things more divine ! 



33 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



CHILDLESS. 

Up to the little grave, with blossoms kept, 
They went together; and one hid her face, 

And spoke aloud the boy's dear name, and wept. 
The other woman stood apart a space, 

And prayed to God. ' ' If only I, ' ' she said, 

"Might keep a grave, and mourn my little dead !'' 



THE MOTHER. 

Yes, Lord, I know! The child is thine. 
And in thy house he shall grow up, 
Nor know the lash of life, nor cup 
Of trembling, as if child of mine. 

But ah — forgive me ! — is he warm ? 
And fed? Or does he miss my breast? 
Oh, I blaspheme ! But can he rest. 
And never cry, in Mary's arm? 



34 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



THE ITALIAN RENAISSANCE. 

How splendid and how vain in thee, 

The ancient quest, Italy ! 

Too strange that wreath, too strangely worn, 

Apollo's laurel — Christ's red thorn! 



DONATELLO. 

Child of the North, within thy Northern eyes. 
How brood and burn the restless mysteries! 
Blooded of Hellas — ^thy dark brows between. 
That spray of antique laurel, how serene ! 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



HAWTHORNE. 

Child — ^lover — servant — master of Romance, 
To you she showed, not splendid of attire. 
With gaud and grace, but all to your desire 
In lonelier hues of solemn radiance ! 
Long years you followed her, and at her glance. 
As at some word, divinely sweet or dire. 
Beheld the souls of men, in shapes of fire. 
Through veiling flesh look out to her askance. 

You saw the brand upon unbranded breast; 

From evil heart you saw the witches wind ; 

You saw dark passion breed in frolic youth ; 

And yet — 'a spirit delicate and blest — 

You knew the primrose of a maiden's mind, 

You took of shame the grave white flower of truth ! 



36 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



THE VIOLINIST. 

But that one air for all that throng! And yet 
How variously" the magic strain went through 
Those thousand hearts ! I saw young eyes, that knew 
Only the fairest sights, grow dim and wet, 
While eyes long fed on visions of regret 
Beheld life 's rose, upspringing from its rue ; 
For some, the night-wind in thy music blew, 
For some, the spring's celestial clarinet! 

And each heart knew its own: the poet heard. 
Ravished, the song his lips could never free; 
The girl, her lover's swift, impassioned word; 
The mother thought, *'0 little, broken flow'r!" 
And one, who knelt in dark Gethsemane, 
Beheld his Lord, who watched with him that hour! 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



THALIA AND MELPOMENE. 

The night would sadden us with wind and rain — 

Let's to sweet Comedy and scorn the night! 

Let's read together: how, by silver light, 

The fairies went, a most enchanting train, 

Amid those clowns and lovers ; how the twain, 

Celia and Rosalind, as shepherds dight, 

Frolicked through Arden; or of that rare sprite, 

That Ariel, who could trick the mortal brain 

To strange beliefs. What! wilt have nothing glad? 

"Wilt read, while winds are moaning out regret, 

The fate of Desdemona — Juliet 1 

Lovest the rain to come and make thee sad? 

Ah, well ! — I know ! — How sweet the tragic part ! 

I am grown old, but once — was what thou art ! 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



ALLUREMENT. 

From yonder hedge, from yonder spray, 
He calls me onward and away; 
Broad lies the world and fair to see, 
The cuckoo calls — is calling me! 

I have not seen nor heard of Care, 
Who used my very bed to share, 
Since that first morn when, airily, 
The cuckoo, calling, called to me! 

My sweetheart's face? I have forgot; 
My mother? But she calls me not; 
From that green bank, from that dim lea, 
The cuckoo calls — ^is calling me! 

And I must go — I may not choose ; 
No gain there is, nor aught to lose ; 
And soon — ah, soon ! — on some wild tree 
The bird sits long and waits for me! 



39 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



THE SHADOW. 

Get you away! Is not the rose at fiow'r? 

And list that song ! The bird is in the sky ! 
Ah, foolish one, I know your final hour, 

I know the very place where you shall lie. 

Silence! The music, and the bridal-train! 

Do you not see the maidens in their white ? 
Along that whiteness, lo, I am the stain. 

And darken where the Lord of all shall smite! 

Yet leave me, Shadow, leave the day dear-bought, 
When the swift runner reaches to the goal ! 

That day is mine — and at the end, unsought, 
I ask the runner's 'body from his soul. 

Then hast thou all ! The beautiful, the brave ! 

Nothing untouched, dark Visitant, of thee ! 
Oh Minded Reason! Sweeter for the grave. 

And fair a thousand-fold 'because of me! 



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THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



THE NIGHT-WATCHES. 

The laurel withers on your brow, 
victor, weary of the race ! 
And you, who sit in mighty place, 
How heavy is your scepter now ! 

Flushed with the kiss your lips have known. 
Woman, this is your hour to wake. 
And know that flesh and heart may break 
When love hath entered on its own. 

And you, who knew where angels trod. 
And marked the path for duller eyes. 
In this lone hour are you still wise ? 
Do you not quail before your God? 

God, to whom the dark is day. 
Forget not these, the strong, the right. 
The happy souls — for, Lord, at night 
They tremble in their tents of clay ! 



41 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



COURAGE. 

I thank thee, Life, that though I be 
This poor and broken thing to see, 
I still can look with pure deilight 
Upon thy rose — the red, the white. 

And though so dark my own demesne. 
My neighbor's fields so fair and green, 
I thank thee that my soul and I 
Can fare along that grass and sky. 

Yet am I clay! Ere I be done. 
Give me one spot that takes the sun ! 
Give me, ere I uncaring rest, 
One rose — ^to wear it on my breast! 



42 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD. 

''0, was it on that awful road, 

The way of death, you came ? ' ' 
"It was a little road," he said, 
"I never knew its name." 

"Is it not rough along that road?" 

"I cannot tell," said he, 
"Up to your gate, in her two arms. 

My mother carried me." 

"And will you show me Christ?" he said, 

"And must we seek Him far?" 
"That is our Lord, with children round. 
Where little blue-bells are." 

"Why, so my mother sits at night, 
When all the lights are dim! 
0, would He mind — would it be right — 
If I should sit by Him?" 



43 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



THE SPRING AFTERWARDS. 

Ah, give again the pitiless snow and sleet — 

November's leaves — or raving winds, that beat 

The heart's own doors — or rain's long ache and fret! 

Only, not spring and all this delicate sweet ! 

Or not this vision of a girl, so set 

In April grass, in April violet! 



BEATRICE. 

Vision of light, above triumphal car — 
Vision of guidance — star of ev'ry star — 
And throned saint within the great white Rose, 
I follow thee : the book at last to close. 
And see again, while sun and stars grow less, 
A little girl, in little crimson dress! 



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THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



THE INVALID CHILD. 

When I see other women's sons at play, 
God, pity me, lest I should turn away 
In rage and grief, and should not dare to look 
At my child, sitting patient with his book ! 

But when their sons hold all the world in fee, 
With young men's pride — oh, then think not of me! 
Load me with burdens, let me feel the rod, 
And give my son his manhood, my God ! 



CONSCIENCE. 

Wisdom am I when thou art but a fool ; 
My part the man, when thou hast played the clod ; 
Hast lost thy garden ? When the eve is cool, 
Harken! — 'tis I who walk there with thy God! 



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THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



THE TREES. 

When on the spring's enchanting blue 
You trace your slender leaves and few, 
Then do I wish myself re-born 
To lands of hope, to lands of morn. 

And when you wear your rich attire, 
Your autumn garments, touched with fire, 
I want again that ardent soul 
That dared the race and dreamed the goal. 

But, oh, when leafless, dark and high. 
You rise against this winter sky, 
I hear God's word: "Stand still and see 
How fair is mine austerity!" 



46 



THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



LOST YOUTH. 

(For a friend who mourns its passing.) 

He took the earth as earth had been his throne ; 
■ And beauty as the red rose for his eye ; 
' ' Give me the moon, ' ' he said, ' ' for mine alone ; 
Or I will reach and pluck it from the sky!" 

And thou, Life, dost mourn him — for the day 
Has darkened since the gallant youngling went ; 
And smaller seems thy dwelling-place of clay 
Since he has left that valley tenement. 

But oh, perchance, beyond some utmost gate, 
While at the gate thy stranger feet do stand. 
He shall approach thee — ^beautiful, elate. 
Crowned with his moon, the red rose in his hand ! 



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THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



TO A FIGHTER, DEAD. 

Pass, pass, you fiery spirit ! Never bland 

And halting never! Hosted round to-night, 

At the great wall, with spears of lifted light. 

Held by embattled seraphim, who stand 

To greet their friend, their comrade, and their own ! 

Doubtless, spirit made for burning war. 

Doubtless your God has need of you afar, 

To lead, for Him, some heavenly fight and lone. 

And therefore knights you — thus, before the throne! 



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THE FLAME IN THE WIND 



''WHERE THERE IS NO VISION THE 
PEOPLE PERISH." 

Spare us, Lord, that last, that dreariest ill ! 
Thy wrath's grim thunder, and thy lightning-scorn 
For our iniquity — ^that we have worn 
Soft as a grace— Jthese, if it be thy will. 
But not unsouled darkness! Not the chill 
Dead air, in which men move a while forlorn 
And swiftly fail ! Oh, break us, make us mourn 
With tears of blood — ^but let us see thee still ! 

For we have visioned thee ! Once, long ago, 

O 'er sea and wilderness a cloud of fire. 

Thou led'st us forth; 'mid many a shame and woe, 

We still have dreamed apocalypse; at last. 

Ah, go not out, thou Flame of aU the past ! 

Burn, thou bright Ardor — ^burn, thou great Desire! 



49 



JUN 2 1813 



